


The Solitary Runner

by Kahvi, Roadstergal



Series: Solitary Runner/Full House/Dying Blogger Trilogy [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-01
Updated: 2011-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-18 21:08:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadstergal/pseuds/Roadstergal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of crime, romance, footwear, detectives and their bloggers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

An unusually cold December had London in its grasp - a cold that would strike you like a punch if you dared to step outside. John Watson would have thought that weather like this would make the criminal classes lie low, perhaps curling up in front of a warm fire or warm heating grate with something steaming in a mug in their hands, watching the rock-hard flakes of snow drift past a window. But no, they were working on what seemed a ridiculous schedule of theft, assault, and general mischief. As a result, times had been busy for one Sherlock Holmes.

One John Watson could never resist accompanying him, and as a result, he had been shot at six times in the past week, barely avoided being stabbed once, and had been punched a few times in the ribs and once in the nose. While Sherlock might scan the newspapers with annoyance, claiming a criminal dry spell was in the air, and grumbling about boredom, Watson could use a rest.

Sherlock seemed to be bothered by the idea, however.

"I told you, Sherlock, I just want a pint," John said, feeling like he was making the same point in the twentieth different way. "It makes me feel better after getting shot at."

"It doesn't make you feel better, it just makes you think you feel better," Sherlock retorted, glaring at the wallpaper.

Semantics. "I don't really care."

"Well, fine. Go on; I don't know why you're bothering to justify it to me." Sherlock waved John away, still not looking in his direction.

"I just wanted to let you know where I'd be in case you wanted me to... fetch your phone, or something." His rational mind told him that this was unfair, but his rational mind could go hang. He shrugged into his jacket.

"I've got pockets, John. I'll be fine." Well stitched pockets. Several of them. Pockets, as it were, were in ample supply.

"Ah, but do you have the gumption to reach into them - that's the question..." John could not resist yelling that parting shot up the stairs as he headed out. Sod Sherlock's silly trousers, and his odd inability to get anything out of them when John was around to do it for him.

"Stop worrying about me and my trousers, and get going." There was no way for John to see, of course, but Sherlock nonetheless felt better having closed his eyes demonstrably.

His trousers. Honestly! What a ridiculously transparent way of distracting Sherlock from the fact that he was clearly either going out to see that woman who wasn't his girlfriend yet (and probably never would be, if John kept ignoring her calls, which admittedly would have been easier for him to avoid if Sherlock hadn't made sure to reroute them to a disused phone) or going on the pull. What possible reason would Sherlock have to protest against either? It was John's life; he was free to waste it however he saw fit.

Slumping back into the sofa, Sherlock stared at the ceiling, wondering why that felt _wrong_ now, somehow. Though of course, it was just a feeling, and feelings were only very rarely useful when the person feeling them was him.

* * *

  
John had no particular destination in mind as he stepped into the bitter wind outside. He'd have preferred to have gone somewhere with Sarah, of course, but she hadn't called him in over a week. She'd probably found someone better off financially than him - a very long list of people, he had to admit, fit that criterion. He just wanted to be out of those rooms, away from Sherlock, in normal human company.

Thankfully, this was London, and there were a plethora of pubs quite close by. He stepped into one that bridged the gap between catering to very young people and catering to very old people; it was boisterous and chatty, and had darts. He found that game oddly pleasing, even without having to imagine a hated politician's face on the board.

He had a pint, and had a revelation. Folk around the bar asked about the weather, laughed at tired jokes regarding same, chatted about the match - oh, yes, John had forgotten that one can actually _talk_ to people about nothing in particular, just for enjoyment. One can lose track of that, being around Sherlock.

One of the fellows who asked about the match was a youngish man - perhaps ten years younger than John - with a severe haircut, a lean, square-jawed face, and an aggressive yet measured stride. It did not take Sherlock's powers to determine the job of this man.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" John asked.

"Afghanistan," the man replied, with a pleased smile. "How'd you know?"

* * *

Sherlock was bored.

That was par for the course when there was nothing to investigate, of course, but there was usually John to distract him. Not that the thought of him, off doing whatever he was doing wasn't distracting, but it was distracting in an annoying, unproductive way. John usually made Sherlock think in ways he never usually did. That was rare, and useful. Then again, there was no case, hence no significant deduction, hence no need for help, hence boredom.

This was just annoying.

That irritating back-and-forth about trousers had stuck in his mind. Suddenly, the thought that his phone would not satisfactorily fit in the back pockets of his trousers struck, seemingly for no particular reason. Sherlock was well aware of the exact dimensions of both his phone and all the pockets of his trousers, of course, but he had never actually tried to fit them in there, and now that the idea was in his mind, he was compelled to go through with it. Fishing the phone out from the front pocket - hah, take that, John - Sherlock carefully slid it into the corresponding back pocket. The fit was snug. Perhaps a different model would be better suited - he should ask John... but John wasn't here, nor was John's phone.

Sighing, Sherlock made a mental note to ask about the phone later. Whenever John deigned to come back.

* * *

"...and then we had to tell him it was just a tin coin!" Frank, the young Royal Marine (as it had turned out) from Afghanistan, laughed heartily, the kind of laugh that John had to join in with.

"So - are you on leave?" Frank asked.

"No, I was sent back. Got shot, wasn't much use afterwards." John hoped the conversation would move on quickly.

Frank's eyes lit up with the excitement of the young and unwounded on hearing about a wound. "Oh, where? Let me take a butcher's..."

"Shoulder, and no, it's not much to see..." John felt oddly shy. The day had been simply chaos - he wouldn't lay money that they had been shooting at an enemy by the end; it might well have been crossfire from an ally at that point. Who can tell, in the chaos over there? After an uncountable time of shooting and ducking and being told to go over _there_ , then over _there_ (in the interest of outmanuvering whoever it was), there had been agony in his shoulder, and he fell to the ground, the distant sound of someone screaming probably being him. Then there was morphine, and antiseptic, and he was back here in the cold, and all was quiet.

Until Sherlock.

"Come on, let me see..."

It took some time, but the fellow was persistant, and John eventually relented, removed his jumper, and unbuttoned his shirt enough for Frank to see the angry red scar. The other man touched it, oohing and ahhing with what John felt to be a very oddly misplaced delight. John rebuttoned his shirt, and brought the subject back to field weaponry. Every young man likes to talk about his guns, of course.

* * *

  
Left with nothing better to do, Sherlock flipped open John's laptop, squeezing about a minute's worth of distraction out of finding the new password. Nothing much had changed; the anti-virus software that had obviously been illegally downloaded had expired. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock renewed it, using a secure fake identity. Why John insisted on registering things to his own name, even when he was stealing (which he stubbornly insisted he wasn't doing) was beyond him. Apart from that, some icons had been deleted - but not the corresponding programs; how laughable - and the background picture had been changed from an abstract dark grey pattern Sherlock had found rather pleasing, to some sort of animal; possibly a dog. A default background, no doubt; the image was too professional to have been taken by John or any of his friends or family, unless they were the kind who spent too much money on their pets, which Sherlock highly doubted. He was about the close the lid again when something caught his eye; one of the documents strewn on the desktop like so much dirty underwear was further to the left than usual, and had been edited. Earlier today, according to the time stamp, when he checked it.

Sherlock double clicked it, feeling a welcome stir of curiosity. The document, formerly a list of potential employers which John had compiled while unemployed - though his clinic hours seemed to have dwindled lately; there was something else to investigate - was now a single sentence, typed in 60 point bold Times New Roman: **Bored, are we?**

Sherlock grinned. An acknowledgement that John knew he was snooping, but not, noticeably, a suggestion that he stop, which Sherlock would have ignored. Inference, logic and insight. He felt a strange surge of pride, and something he couldn't quite place. Eagerly, he minimized the document, giving the desktop the full force of his scrutiny.

The changes were subtle, but obvious enough that Sherlock would notice them. Almost like a little game. The folder containing his strategy games had simply been renamed 'don't', which was amusing enough that Sherlock obeyed it. He'd overwritten all of John's savegames during his last boredom-induced raid. His important documents had all been renamed with simplistic, descriptive titles; the scanned copy of his birth certificate labeled 'I'm pushing forty and am genetically male', his CV 'yes, I am actually a doctor', some written accounts of army life were now named 'these would bore you'. Sherlock was actually giggling quietly to himself by the time he reached the picture folder, now renamed 'The porn is in the folder marked 'don't look here'.

He paused. That was practically an invitation.

* * *

  
John was feeling good. He was feeling altogether too good. He never was much of a drinker, but he had definitely had a few pints too many, judging by how good he felt. Judging by the fact that he was singing, too, which was simply not something he should be doing. Frank and he knew the same rude songs, and some of the other denizens picked up the choruses easily and joined in. Frank threw his arm around John, and it was simply delightful to have normal, warm, human physical contact. He had been missing that, too.

* * *

  
There were three distinct themes – not that the pictures and short, clearly free downloadable, clips were organized in any way. There was conventional man-and-woman business (oral and standard) with conventionally attractive people; mild female domination over a man (pegging and the like), and three-ways featuring two men and one woman. Nothing too surprising there; the fact that John found certain men attractive was something Sherlock would have been able to deduce even if he hadn't seen the looks he'd given Sherlock when he thought the latter wasn't looking. But, well... on that note, it might be worth investigating how far that particular attraction went. He'd tried to nip it in the bud early on, but clearly John wasn't aware of it himself, which complicated things. Pointless stupidity always did.

The conventional stuff was irrelevant, so Sherlock ignored it, glancing briefly at the domination pics. There were one or two videos too, but Sherlock clicked the window shut in dismay after just a few seconds of one. So John wanted cock, but couldn't admit it to himself. Or honestly felt aroused by the idea of women with makeshift penises. Sherlock did respect the man, but it was hard not to feel superior when confronted with attitudes like that. There was a power play aspect there too, certainly, wanting to be dominated. That was... well, that was fine, of course. Somewhat distracted, Sherlock shifted his concentration to the threesomes.

This wasn't the two-guys-banging-one-girl-and-balls-not-touching type of homophobic nonsense, which was pleasing to note. Everyone seemed to be doing something to everyone else involved. In general, there was a lack of violence and fake breasts; everything was well-lit and clean. Sherlock did not make a habit of watching porn, but keeping abreast of the industry, so to speak, was a necessary part of his profession. Porn involved sex and money, both of which were the fuel for an unsurprising number of crimes. As far as personal interest went...

...well, Sherlock wasn't entirely uninterested in sex, as such. He was human, and despite his wishes to the contrary, he did actually have a body, and desires. Women left him cold, 99% of the time, and those few men that did catch his attention were invariably boring, despite the brief distraction their looks might prove. He had never gone terribly far with any of them; there hadn't seemed much point. Watching _other people_ have sex seemed less interesting than watching paint dry, on the whole.

He unbuttoned his shirt a little, clicking open the next picture; the first in a series, it appeared. It featured a blond and a dark haired man locking lips above a naked redhead, whose features tended to the androgyny. She was grinning, watching them, but not touching; the men's attention was entirely on one another. The blond was somewhat heftier, stronger-looking, clearly in control of the kiss. In a moment, it seemed, the other man would be pushed down with the sheer force of it, surrendering entirely, perhaps-

The sound of keys in the door shocked him back into reality.

John had not been in the least bit cold when he walked back. He definitely had drunk a few too many, and the stairs told him so as they danced about delightfully. He had to place his feet carefully and firmly to keep them in place as he mounted the stairs, and laughed gently at the game. "Eh!" he said, seeing Sherlock, looking a little ruffled, out of his room and in the main room - that was unexpected.

Sherlock looked up. "Oh. It's you."

John noticed that his laptop was open in front of Sherlock. He had expected the man to snoop, but hadn't expected him to be so brazen about it. Not that he cared, at that moment. "Find anything good?"

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally, noting the way John's shirt collar was sticking out of his jumper on one side, and not the other.

"Oh, I had forgotten how much fun you are!" John laughed, pulling off his coat and throwing it on the arm of his chair.

There would be no point in hiding his tracks, so Sherlock didn't, merely closing the computer and putting it away, neatly. "And did _you_ have fun?"

John flopped into his chair with a grin. _Fun_. That's what had happened! "You know, Sherlock, I did."

"And was she impressed by your scar?"

John laughed again - strike one for the amazing detective! " _He_ was very impressed."

So he wasn't repressed to the point of denying that sort of interaction. That was good. In general terms. "But you came back."

"Well, yes. I live here."

"My phone won't fit in my pocket," Sherlock said, suddenly remembering.

The mental image of Sherlock looking for his phone, not having John there to fetch it, and throwing open the window, post-Scrooge-conversion-like, to get an street urchin to do it, made John laugh uproariously. "Were you trying to get someone to bring it to you the whole time I was gone?"

What that supposed to be funny? Did he have to spell it out; was John actually that obtuse? "These trousers are new."

"Oh! I should have noticed. They look exactly like your old trousers."

Sherlock snorted. "If you're referring to the ones I wore yesterday, they're three shades darker, wool; not cotton/polyester blend, and a quarter of an inch shorter."

"Are you saying I don't pay close enough attention to your trousers?" John was enjoying himself entirely too much. Not caring a great deal about the outcome made interaction with Sherlock infinitely more pleasant.

"Clearly, you don't."

There was not a hint of irony in Sherlock's voice. It simply wasn't in the man's makeup, was it? John leaned forward, grabbing a handful of leg cloth, peering at it intently. "I won't let them out of my sight!"

The unexpected contact made Sherlock freeze, instinctively. Somehow, the urge to pull free never came. Well, it was just John doing something ridiculous. Not really worth any sort of reaction. He rolled his eyes.

John laughed gently again, and, realizing he liked the contact, rested his head against Sherlock's leg. Warm. Comfortable. Gods, he was buzzed.

Sherlock sucked in a breath. This... this now. This was dangerous. Stolen glances, that was fine. Accidentally-on-purpose touching, unproblematic. But this was _deliberate_. Clearly deliberate. He kept still, weighing his options. John was drunk, though not to the point of not knowing what he was doing, and was quite possibly looking for some sort of physical interaction. But he'd had that at the pub. Ample opportunity, judging from the state of his clothes, the flushing of his face when Sherlock had mentioned the incident, and yet... "You came back."

"I like you," John smiled into Sherlock's leg. It was true, he did. Sherlock was maddening, but intriguing, and certainly John could have found another flatmate by now if he wanted to. He didn't want to.

"You like me." He might as well have said 'I like orange carburetors'.

John giggled gently. "Of course!" Then, suddenly, Sherlock was awkwardly patting the top of his head, as though John were a reluctant cat. John leaned back, still holding the leg. "I'm not a pet, you know."

Sherlock was staring. "I've never had a pet. Don't get on with animals."

"That's sad." This was perhaps not surprising - Sherlock was one the most antisocial persons John had ever met - but even antisocial people could benefit from the love of an animal.

Apparently it was, if John's face was anything to judge by. Ironically, the forlorn expression made him look much like lost puppy. Sherlock had to smile, not really noticing his hand slowly moving to John's face.

John leaned into Sherlock's touch; it was unexpected, and warm, and pleasing. He watched Sherlock hunker down, keeping his hand there, looking at John with some unreadable expression.

It was baffling, truly. However much John might find Sherlock attractive, Sherlock was clearly uninterested; he'd made that clear from the beginning, and now John had turned down the attentions of an equally clearly interested someone (younger, attractive; possibly military) to come back here. "Why?"

"Animals trust us and love us unconditionally."

It took a few seconds for John's reply to sink in fully. Sherlock stared at him, grasping for comprehension. Animals. He was still on that. Such fantastic difference - such wildly different intelligence! There was beauty in it, Sherlock realized, giving in to sudden impulse and kissing John on the lips. It didn't feel like much; just skin against skin. Soft, perhaps.

John's eyes opened wide for a moment. This was truly unexpected, and - was this something he wanted? He didn't kiss men, as a rule, but this was Sherlock, and it was rather nice - warm and soft - and he pressed his lips firmly against Sherlock's, letting go of the man's leg and grabbing fabric higher up. He felt Sherlock shiver as he closed his eyes and pressed closer. This was exciting, deeply exciting, and John pulled Sherlock towards himself, into the chair.

Following instinct was not unfamiliar - it could be useful at times, Sherlock knew - but the situation was, so utterly. He tried to follow John's moves somewhat awkwardly; one hand in stuck in the man's hair, oddly gentle. It was coarse and strong, not like his own at all. He wondered, idly, if he'd ever touched the hair of another living human being. At any rate, John seemed to enjoy the attention; his heart was beating faster and his limbs were heating up. He was pulling Sherlock closer, rubbing his sides, and his mouth opened in a moan. Sherlock was surprised to find himself answering with a whimper.

Sherlock's kissing was awkward, but he was a really fast learner. Then again, John's kissing was probably also a little awkward; he liked to think he was good at it, but the turn of events and the haze of drink had him at a severe disadvantage. He was nonetheless enthusiastic and passionate. Perhaps a bit too much of the former; at this rate, he was in danger of extracting Sherlock's tonsils or dumping them both on the floor. Or both. If nothing else, the enthusiasm seemed to be catching; Sherlock's eyes were wild and open. John tried to get one leg atop the back of Sherlock, eyes still closed, kissing intently. He was very hard indeed, and his erection wanted sensation.

There was not enough air! Sherlock pulled away, but his face refused to give up contact. It still pressed close, his nose, for want of anything else, rubbing against John's. There was something intoxicating about this closeness.

John gasped as he realized he needed to breathe, too; after that was taken care of, he dove back in, pulling at Sherlock's shirt. It had to come off, for some reason, if buttons had to pop off to make that happen.

Buttons? Buttons popping? That was an expensive shirt; Sherlock shifted to ascertain the damage, losing his balance in the process and falling backwards to the floor. There was only John to grab, so Sherlock did, wincing as the former made a "whu-whuu!" noise as they headed towards the floor. Now, there they were, John on top, pinning Sherlock down. Truly pinning him; he could not move. The thought was... were there any thoughts left?

John had a brilliant insight - once they were on the floor, no more falling was possible, so they were safe to proceed. He started back in with the kissing, which was, all things considered, one of the better outcomes of the evening; it was hot, and passionate, and wet, and exciting. He managed to properly undo one of Sherlock's buttons, which was also exciting. The sight of Sherlock lying spread-eagled, staring, as John worked the buttons, did something ineffable to John, and something very effable to his privates. John took a moment to murmur, "I want you," shyly - where had that come from? But yes, he wanted this lean man with the unexpectedly soft lips, and he worked three more buttons open, intently. After that accomplishment, he looked up again - finally noticing the look of abject terror on Sherlock's face. Terror. Not a good thing. He stumbled over his words. "Is... is this... you know..."

"What?" Action, attention had stopped. _No,_ god, not now! Seeking more closeness, more sensation, Sherlock pressed closer, arching up towards the body above him.

That was all the 'yes' John needed in his current state, so he leaned in again, kissing, using the new-found access through Sherlock's shirt to slip one hand in and rub the man's chest. Warm, slender, muscular, almost hairless - nothing like a woman's chest at all, but fantastic to feel. Sherlock slumped back, his arms eventually coming up to embrace John vaguely, but not unenthusiastically. Chest was not enough. John slid his hand out of Sherlock's shirt, starting to unfasten the man's trousers. He needed more. More of what, he wasn't sure, but he felt strongly that it was to be found in this direction.

How had they come to this point? Was John actually taking his trousers off? Sherlock licked his lips in rapt attention. This was beyond anything he'd done before; he'd never lost control like this, never let anyone - anyone - touch him this way. They should stop. They really, really should not have gotten started in the first place; this could never end well. He grabbed John's thighs, rubbing them in a vague sort of way, amazed at how they could be there. Then John finished that whole opening business, and then... then he reached inside, and Sherlock stopped breathing, with an "oh."

Sherlock's voice was deep and shivering, almost unbearably sexy. So, oddly enough, was the erection that John grabbed - pale, lean, and hard, just like the man himself. John wrapped his hand around it, smiling with a shuddering sigh, feeling like he had won some sort of delightful prize. He felt more than heard Sherlock inhale noisily as the man stiffened a bit - but he seemed all right, relaxed, enjoying things, and really, who doesn't enjoy having his erection stroked? John realized it was too dry for stroking to feel properly good, though, and no lube was about. But oral sex was brilliant, yes, and he loved to give it to women, and he knew what he liked himself, so this should be good - he leaned down and took the erection in his mouth. It fit so ridiculously perfectly, so easy to take in.

All thoughts of protestation were vanquished; any thoughts at all were vanquished, which was unheard of. Unintelligible exclamations escaped him as John attacked with enthusiasm, trying to swallow him completely. "John," he cried, not quite knowing why, reaching out to touch his hair for the same reason.

Immediately, John looked up. "That ok?" He was trying to remember to keep his teeth out of the way, but maybe something else wasn't working?

Words. OK. He could remember words, if he concentrated. "Yes."

John believed that - Sherlock was panting open-mouthed, but with a look of absolute bliss. John grinned with delight. "Good." He dove back in.

He was lost, utterly lost, whining and whimpering like some pathetic whore and finally, inevitably, gasping as he found release. Too quickly? Who knew? In films people tended to go on almost indefinitely, but films lied. Much like people.

That was quick - but this was exciting, after all, and different and new, and one could lose control easily. The taste was thin and bitter, and so like the man himself that John smiled after making a little face, as if the taste was a little joke of Sherlock's. He pulled back; that had been good, and perhaps Sherlock would do the same? No, that was too much to ask, but he could get off while watching Sherlock there - yes, that would be fantastic... But Sherlock's expression seemed to be trying to be many different things at once, only some of which were good. His penis seemed equally confused; it was drooping, but not yet committed to the idea of relaxing. John felt doubt creep in.

Sherlock blinked. Over. It was over now. Good. Time to compose himself, then; resume normality. He swiftly began the task of tucking himself in. "That was... lovely. Thanks."

"Lovely..." Confusion rattled John - he'd had reactions to sex ranging from enthusiastic appreciation to upset histrionics, but never anything so.... clinical.

"Yes, I enjoyed it." Adjusting his jacket, Sherlock got off the floor, a little unsteadily. There had been a fair bit of blood rushing to and from his brain, after all.

"Well. That's... good?" John watched Sherlock pack himself up as if they had just had tea with some unexpectedly tasty scones, and now it was done. John became acutely aware of the fact that he was on his knees on the floor, erect and disheveled.

"Yes, it was very good." The floors were quite clean, but Sherlock brushed his trousers off anyway, before heading towards the door.

"Oh." John looked down, biting his lip, and nodded. He had no idea what had just happened, or what was going on at all, but he felt fifteen kinds of idiot. "That's all right, then." Getting up stiffly, he self-consciously buttoned his shirt back up; his erection did not know that it was no longer needed, and was still peeking up hopefully. It would get the message - whatever the message was. The alcohol had not left his system, and the room still wasn't right - he needed to get out of there. He headed towards the stairs to his room.

Sherlock's coat was waiting for him on the railing, he picked it up as he went along; a warm, familiar weight. He felt a bit of a chill as John passed him - well, it was an old house, after all. The cold could so easily seep through.

John felt Sherlock shiver as he walked by, and the leaden weight that had been building in his stomach collapsed into his bowels. The weight made him stagger up the stairs, and it was an eternity before he could collapse, fully clothed, on his bed. He took one of the pillows, dropped it atop his head, groaned through it, and sighed. What had just happened?

* * *

Sherlock had been walking for nearly twenty minutes when he realized he had no idea where he was. _Genuinely_ no idea; not just that false sense of disorientation that unfamiliar scenery in an area might bring about.

That was impossible.

Not just improbable; he had London memorized. Every street, every Tube station, every pointless, stupid little touristy attraction. Snow fell around his shoulders as he cast about for any sort of familiar landmark - there had to be one - but everything felt... blurry, somehow. The British Library, he thought, leaning back against a railing. That would have had him going in circles though, wouldn't it? Somewhere around the British Library.

Somewhere. God help him.

* * *

The weight of the pillow on his face helped a little, but not enough; John's erection and emotions were refusing to subside. The room was doing acrobatics, and his cock wanted attention, and his head was screaming at him that he had just done something terribly wrong.

Bath. He needed a bath.

He drew a good, steaming hot one, throwing in some salts left by the previous tenant (or perhaps Mrs. Hudson) that smelled very strongly of lilac. Any smell that wasn't Sherlock and cock would do, really. He dropped his clothing in a pile beside the tub, lowering himself slowly into the hot, fragrant water. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

Surprisingly, it worked. His head cleared a bit, his erection subsided. He felt almost normal again.

His phone buzzed, the short buzzes of a text message.

He thought very hard about ignoring it, but he simply couldn't. Problems did not go away if ignored. It was likely a text from Sherlock - the man _was_ his friend, after all, and it wouldn’t be right. He hauled himself half out of the bath to fish the phone out of his pile of clothes on the floor.

The text was blank, but the message was from Sherlock.

Biting his lip in irritation, John texted back "?"

A reply came: "Now you're asking the right questions. Don't always have answers. Sorry."

John settled back into bath, holding the phone; he regarded it for a few moments, just soaking. He then texted back the one thing that came to mind: "Only human." He dropped the phone over the edge of the tub, submerging himself entirely and, oddly, feeling a little better.

Not too far away, all things considered, Sherlock laughed out loud against his phone's display; pressing it close, and squeezing his eyes shut.


	2. Chapter 2

John woke in the morning stark naked under the covers. He had been warm enough when he left the bath the night before to crawl directly into bed, but Mrs. Hudson turned the heat down at night. The residual warmth had seeped away despite the best efforts of his comforter. It was either the chill or his empty stomach that had woken him, so he slipped into his robe to address the former and headed downstairs to attempt to address the latter.

The state of the kitchen was not one to inspire hope in the hungry. No bread of any kind. One box of cereal - with nothing but dust in the very bottom of the bag. John threw the box away. Even if they had cereal, he thought glumly, the milk would be another matter - as would be whatever Sherlock had in the refrigerator next to it, which might well put him off of food altogether. John rubbed his forehead. He hadn't had supper the night before, and he was ravenous.

John heard a knock at the door, followed by Mrs. Hudson's voice saying, "Hello?" He thought about changing his mind regarding theology when he opened the door to reveal the woman herself, a bright smile on her face, two heaping plates full of food in her hands. "I've been keeping these warm on the stove," she said, bringing them in and looking around. John hastily cleared a spot for the plates on the table, pushing aside papers and what may well have been valuable Sherlockian clues. The man could deal with it.

John tucked into the eggs, toast, and bacon with gusto, thanking Mrs. Hudson profusely. She smiled, somewhat distractedly. "Oh, that's all right, dear. It's nice to have someone with an appetite around."

John smiled up at her as he swallowed another bite. "Doesn't eat much, does he? Doesn't sleep much, either - I'm surprised he's not up."

"He's in one of his moods, I expect." She glanced at the door behind her.

John nodded. "That... makes sense." Moods. That... going on of the night before had prompted a Mood. He prodded an egg, his appetite disappearing. Eventually, he felt a soft touch on his hand.

"Don't let it get to you, dear. It's just his way." Mrs. Hudson's smile, though vague, was clearly trying to be reassuring.

John's smile, in return, was wry. "Is it?"

Not one syllable of Mrs. Hudson's reply was heard, as Sherlock chose that moment to waltz into the room, leap upon the plate opposite John's and whisk it away. "Ah, food. Excellent, Mrs. Hudson!"

John looked at the door through which Sherlock had just stormed out. "I suppose it is..."

Mrs. Hudson excused herself embarrassedly as door to Sherlock's room slammed. John sighed. Something was very wrong, something indefinable and strange, something for which he had no context. He pushed his plate away, no longer in the least bit hungry, and went back to his room to dress properly.

He dressed against the cold, heading out of the flat immediately. One of the aspects of London that he loved, that kept him here, was the ability to walk; it was an excellent walking city, with old buildings that made you feel like no matter what was going on, greater things than yourself were about, and in a hundred years, the city would be the same, though you would be gone. He wandered along the Thames, pausing to lean against the railing and stare at the water (or water-like-substance). That, too, was soothing; the water had seen colder temperatures than this, and temperatures too hot for him to imagine, as well, he was sure - and still, it flowed.

When he eventually turned around, Sherlock was there - sitting on a bench, clearly placed in his line of sight. John leaned back against the railing, watching in turn. He didn't know what this development meant, but he now felt calm enough to handle it.

A pigeon approached Sherlock, looking hopeful - the two locked eyes and it hopped away, sadly. John smiled inwardly at that; did Sherlock have that effect on _every_ living creature? He walked towards Sherlock. "Bored again?"

"Are we on a case? No? Then yes, I'm bored." The bench was too cold to be sitting on, really, but he'd done worse. Besides, the bird was still watching him, and Sherlock wasn't about to give it the satisfaction of getting up.

"I suppose staring down pigeons is preferable to shooting up the flat."

"I told you; I don't get on with animals." And they had talked about that before, hadn't they. To his annoyance, Sherlock felt an eyebrow twitch.

"No animals at all." It was almost a question. Was that his role, for Sherlock? The loyal terrier? It was not one he would choose... but Sherlock looked up, and for a moment, his eyes showed everything - confusion, desperation, affection.

"It's not something I can help."

John sighed, melting a little. Perhaps the man was, after all, only human at the core - but it was easy to forget that, superhuman as he was in so many ways. "Sherlock..."

"Don't tell me you want to bring home a pet..." Sherlock mumbled, looking over John's shoulder. If he sat here much longer, he might get stuck.

"Do you?" John was startled at the brusqueness in his voice. Back at pets again, and him as the terrier following Holmes home.

"I..." The bird had hopped away, having found someone else to feed it.

John tried to relax again, to regain that calmness he had felt just a minute and change ago. "You're an odd man." He looked out over the liquid. "Don't worry, someone is going to kill someone else soon enough." Holmes needed that stimulation; he did odd things without it. Shooting up the walls, strange chemical experiments that smelled ghastly, and, apparently, sex with men.

"A woman was killed in a bizarre tanning accident this morning; it was in the Mirror."

"I'm sure Moriarty was involved. By the way, is there such a thing as a non-bizarre fatal tanning accident?"

"There are approximately fifteen ways in which an adult human being can be killed by tanning equipment." Sherlock quirked a smile. His hands moved about, not content to lie still. Maybe that's why people fed birds; it would be something to keep them busy.

"Are any of them sinister, evidence of a higher mind?" John teased. It was almost a conversation, and it was on a safe topic; John wanted that to continue.

"No." Sherlock looked up. John's face was surprisingly hard to read. How was it possible for someone to look earnest and skeptical in equal measure? Constantly? "Which is why it will probably turn out to be nothing. Meanwhile, stay out of tanning salons."

"Never went into them to start with."

"No, but you used to work in one." Not quite the truth, but there had been enough truths for one day. Besides, that particular card would be better kept close, played only when seriously needed. Sherlock rose. "I will buy you lunch, now."

"I've never heard Afghanistan referred to as a tanning salon. A sun-and-sand getaway, yes. Erm - lunch?"

"Yes, I..." There it was - the sound, the _feel_ of something misplaced, _wrong_. Sherlock stopped abruptly, holding a hand out to halt John. A young boy was standing in front of them, either a very young-looking 17-year-old or a 14-year-old trying to look older; Sherlock's guess would be latter.

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" the boy said, squinting underneath a too-long fringe. "Got a message for you!"

When you heard the sound, it was too late, but Sherlock was way ahead of the sound, having pushed John to the ground in that vital second before the shot whizzed over them from behind.

John rolled under the beach Sherlock was sitting on, reaching for his gun; he belatedly realized it was back in a drawer in 221B, and said a rude word.

Sherlock was up again in an instant. The boy was already across the street, but not too far away - not for the two of them. "It's a diversion; they won't shoot again - come on!"

John scrambled to his feet, running after Holmes. He idly wondered if he should be worried about how elated he suddenly felt. Was he becoming addicted to adrenaline? Or was it just massive relief at not having to deal with this strange situation with Sherlock? The man shouted out directions as they ran - many seemed entirely nonsensical, even taking them, at one point, though a shop and out the other side. John knew better than to question Sherlock's shortcuts - his knowledge of London was unmatched.

"There!" Sherlock pointed - highly visible, though clearly second-hand clothing; curiously new sneakers flashing white as the boy ran into an alley. The alley would not trap him, but it might slow him down.

John kept on Sherlock's tail, feeling oddly like Lassie. "Who is that?"

"We'll find out soon enough!" The alley was disappointingly empty; by the time John and Sherlock reached it, though they were gaining on their quarry, it was clear that he would escape. As expected, a flash of charcoal gray at the other side turned out to be a waiting car into which the boy disappeared. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, cursing at himself as the car sped off; it was already too far away to be seen clearly. He'd let himself be distracted - clumsy! That combination of mismatched clothing had been meant to rouse his curiosity; he had not reacted in time to shift his concentration to the license plate. It would probably turn out to be a dead end, but genuinely _knowing_ that it was would help eliminate a number of possibilities. Still, it was a start. He allowed himself a smile.

John stopped next to Sherlock, breathing a little heavily. "I expect it isn't terribly helpful that I got the plate."

"You are an absolute marvel!" Sherlock's smile turned to a beaming grin.

John was taken aback. "What?"

The chase had left Sherlock content and light headed; endorphins surged as he looked at John. "There are times I can't predict what you'll do. Do you know how rare that is?"

John gave a wry smile. "Just me and Moriarty, eh?" Hardly the company he would choose, but the man _did_ have a rather magnetic appeal for Holmes...

"He has to fight for my attention," Sherlock mumbled. One thing was an equal who preformed like a spoiled child in a playground, yelling 'look at me, daddy'; quite another was this ridiculously ordinary man who somehow did everything Sherlock needed before he knew he needed it. Not so ordinary then, surely?

"Don't we all?" John muttered, then cleared his throat. "Who was that boy?"

"I have absolutely no idea!" Odd, how thrilling ignorance could be, at times. Of course, it meant impending discovery. "But that license plate number and the brand of his ridiculously overprized shoes will help me find out." Sherlock leaned against the wall and towards John, relishing in the feel of the hard, freezing wall and the warmth radiating from their bodies.

"You're not bored anymore?" John smiled tentatively, but this was odd - Sherlock seemed far too happy, given how far from that state he had been not twenty minutes earlier.

Sherlock laughed, patting John's arm - solid, like the wall behind them. He felt elated, far more pleased than the thrill of the chase usually left him. The weather, perhaps. Everything was thrown into sharp relief.

John's smile was a little wistful. It still seemed a rather abrupt about-face, even for Holmes. "That's good, then. What next?"

Sherlock's smile flashed on and off a bit, suddenly aware that he was _touching_ another human being, and he removed his hand somewhat hesitantly. "We wait."

John looked around. "What, here?"'

The smile twitched again. "I'd prefer somewhere more comfortable."

John gestured the way out of the alley, expansively, and Sherlock pushed away from the wall to follow him. John watched Sherlock closely; his hands were a little jittery, until Sherlock thrust them into his pockets. They walked alongside one another in amicable silence, which Sherlock was the one to suddenly break.

"John?"

"Mm?"

He was good with words. It shouldn't fell like pulling teeth. Out they had to come though; this... amicability was something that should be preserved. Which meant that they would have to _talk_. Good god. This was why he'd never bothered with relationships. "When I said I was married to my work..."

There was just the tiniest touch of wary in John's voice. "Yes?"

"What I meant was, there isn't room for anything else. There _never_ has been."

"Yes, of course," John said, flatly. Sherlock had been... clear enough, the night before and this morning, about his regret that... something sexual had happened between them. Fine. Done. Let it go.

No, this wasn't going right at all. Sherlock stopped, abruptly, squeezing his eyes shut. For fuck's sake, he couldn't even _look_ at John now that the image of them... of the two of them... _that_ thing, was in his mind. "I'm sorry about your breakfast," he said, for lack of anything else.

"My breakfast?" John felt whiplash from this change of topic.

"I noticed you hadn't finished it this morning."

"Blast my breakfast!" John looked down, a little embarrassed by his outburst. But for fuck's sake, what was with this ridiculous dancing around?

 _John_ was upset? No, really; _John_ was upset?! "I can't talk about this!"

John stopped. Was Sherlock going to passively-aggressively beat that horse down, then resurrect it for another go, over and over? "What is your problem?"

Sherlock didn't hear him, already walking steadily in the opposite direction. That had been a mistake. _That_ ; the conversation about _that_ , all of it. He'd been seduced, lulled into complacency by the day and John's infuriating _niceness_ , which cleverly was tempered with just enough snark to be all-too tolerable. No; there would be no more of that. The case - there was a case now; that was what was important.

John waited for a moment before sighing and hurrying after Sherlock. The latter was striding along, oblivious, muttering details to himself about the incident that had just occurred. John walked beside him, letting him talk. He wasn't talking about John, and John could deal with that for the moment.

"The clothes, you see," Sherlock mumbled, "they were wrong. All wrong. But in such a deliberate way! And that escape route; no one would seriously consider that on the fly, unless they were me, or thinking like me."

John listened, only half paying attention, his mind racing. Talking was not the appropriate thing to do at this point, but damn it, he had to settle this, one way or another.

"Or wanting to see my thinking; wanting to _test_ me. The car was parked there on Monday, judging by the pattern of melting snow where it had been standing; that's four days ago. Four days! How is that even possible?" As they walked on, John just quietly _being_ there, Sherlock felt himself relax. This was better. So much easier, this way.

As Sherlock's body language softened, John instinctively moved a little closer, barely noticing. Sherlock gravitated towards him, eventually getting close enough that he could lean slightly against John. Rubbing elbows as they walk, John considered, was a very safe form of contact, especially when one has hands thrust into one's pockets. He did note that Sherlock was taking every opportunity for accidental contact he could get. This was not clarifying matters.

" _You_ know what it's like to drive in downtown London, John - that's where you got your license, for God knows what reason; I found it under the mouse mat, why were you hiding it there?"

John restricted himself to quiet one-word answers as Sherlock went on, fully expecting to be talked over. Eventually, he was walked into a restaurant where Sherlock ordered - food for John, nothing for himself. John made a lame attempt to interject personal preference before dropping it. He had other things on his mind.

Watching John eat was oddly compelling. There was something so _deliberate_ about it - everything the man did was deliberate. That, certainly, was something Sherlock could admire. All in all, this quiet togetherness was rather soothing; almost comfortable. And really, John would do anything he asked, wouldn't he? That hypothesis would have to be tested, but for now, Sherlock let his hand rest on John's briefly, a companionable gesture. Wasn't that what he wanted, really - a companion? In all honesty, he would have no trouble making rent on his own.

Why was Sherlock staring at him, touching his hand? He even got to the point of looking John in the eye once or twice. "Can't figure you out at all. I mean, I usually can't, but today especially." John took a bite and chewed doggedly, looking out of the window.

"Very few people can."

The way Sherlock said it, it sounded like a compliment. "Very few? I'd have thought it would be none." He stabbed at something green with a fork. Some kind of salad. He wasn't tasting much.

"It's fairly close to none." Companionable was the right word, indeed. He felt almost back on form again.

"That gap between 'almost' and 'none' doesn't eat at you?" John couldn't conceal an edge underneath his teasing.

"'Almost' makes it more challenging." Sherlock smiled. He knew John would understand.

John nodded. "You do like a challenge..."

"I get bored easily."

"I've noticed," John bit his lip.

Sherlock caught his eye. "Though much less with you around." That was it. that was what he needed. Just the right kind of distraction, at the right time.

"Really? I'd hate to see the things you got up to before, then." John's eyes dropped.

"I didn't get up to much before." There had been... well, there had been the boys, obviously. Not that they had all been young, but the word 'men' wasn't much of a fit. Taking them home had been easy, and that had been more the reason than anything else. See how far he could take it. How far he could take them. But he hadn't let any of _them_ touch him, not even those few he'd kissed. He hadn't touched them either, not when they were so eager to touch themselves. That had always slightly repulsed him, so he'd let them go. Shaking the memory, he tried to catch John's eye, leaning down. "That's what I was trying to say earlier. John... I've never..." How could he possibly explain?

Enough was enough. John looked around as a cursory check for anyone close enough to overhear, then spoke quickly and quietly. "Look, Sherlock, let it go. I was a little drunk, I haven't had sex in ages... I've never done that before, either, but you seemed game, and things just... ran away a bit. But look, it's not worth ruining our friendsh... er, living arrangements.. er..." He stumbled over words towards the end.

Sherlock blinked, his eyes wide. "...in ages..." He mumbled. "Right." Ages? Try _never_. How about _never_ , John? How about a virgin in his fucking thirties, or not so much, as the case may be?

John leaned back a little, trying to keep his body language open. At least it was out in the open, now. "All right?" It was a genuine question.

"You have me at a disadvantage." The smile didn't quite reach Sherlock's eyes, but then again, it rarely did. "I'm not saying I've never... experimented, but it's never gone terribly far. With anyone." He looked at John, calmly. "Like I said; no time for it."

That sounded all too nonchalant. John leaned his chin on clasped hands. "It's not about advantages... or what I've done or you've done, really. It's about what you want to do about it. Forget it happened and keep on like we were? I could do that. Not forget it happened?" He looked out the window, feeling massively vulnerable. "I could do that, too." Sherlock said nothing, but after a beat, he grabbed John's hand.

Through John's wrist, Sherlock felt his pulse rise. Steady eyes looked directly at him, relentlessly. Smiles were... difficult, but Sherlock tried anyway, hoping _something_ would be reflected in his own eyes, relieving him of the burden of actually having to say anything. John was not a boy, and Sherlock did not want to strip him naked in his lounge. That made it all the more difficult.

John spoke quickly and quietly, laying it out as clearly as possible. There was too much opportunity for misunderstanding, too much at stake for anything but full honesty. "You're the craziest bugger I've ever met, and you drive me insane, and you make me feel like an idiot, and you shoot the walls and spill sulfuric acid in my tea, but you make me feel more alive than I think I've ever felt. I don't know what that makes us, but it isn't something I want to lose."

That seemed about right. Sherlock nodded, squeezing John's hand. Just about.

John leaned back in his chair, feeling some tension dissipate. Nothing had blown up. "Everyone thinks we're gay anyway - we might as well get some sex out of it." Sherlock laughed at that, though he did not let go of John's hand. John cleared his throat. "Well, that was a magical epiphany, but I still don't know who shot at us earlier."

 _The case_. Sherlock felt a welcome surge of newfound energy. "I told you; we wait."

"Here?"

"Wherever convenient. It was meant to provoke a reaction; I shall provide none."

John felt almost giddy with relief; a large weight was off of his shoulders. "You're good at that."

"It's a useful thing, in this profession." The name of the restaurant had been printed crudely on the napkins, the ink making the letters morph together in pairs. Sherlock pulled at the napkin, as though the action would break them apart. It didn't work that way, of course.

"I don't want to stay here." John's legs felt jittery. He hoped it wasn't obvious. Even if there was little point hiding things from Sherlock, he could at least try - he had his pride.

"Well then," Sherlock said, feeling even his voice relax and settle in a lower register, "shall we?"

"Please!" In one flourishing motion, Sherlock had left notes on the table and put on his coat. John's own recoating and departure was considerably less dramatic.

* * *

They were three streets and a shortcut through a back garden away from 221B when Sherlock noticed a twitch of displeasure on John's face. From the way he was glancing around, just barely keeping up with Sherlock's tempo, his complaint was obviously with the rate at which they were going.

Fair enough; Sherlock slowed down.

John liked to people-watch, he knew, and there were enough scenic routes for them to pass along; some rather touristy, but that would interest them both. Sure enough, the moment they turned onto a busier street, the twitch smoothed out, John's features slowly shaping themselves into an understated smile. It felt much warmer than this record-cold December should allow for. Sherlock moved a little closer, in no particular hurry now.

* * *

John barely noticed where they were, where they were going. After an emotionally pummeling evening and morning, he was pleased just to be in a fairly even place with Sherlock. He didn't care too much where they were, though the sights of London and the bustle of humanity certainly relaxed him. He found it pleasing to see so many people choosing to live in close proximity to each other and still getting along. He arrived back at 221B feeling in a decent place with respect to the world.

The flat was no warmer, yet the comfort of their walk seemed to have followed them inside. Sherlock stretched a little, undoing another button on his shirt. He never really felt the cold that keenly, anyway.

John sat down, pulling out his laptop - he hadn't checked current research in far too long. Sherlock sat across the room, engaged in what was, no doubt, some good quality thinking. Engrossed in his reading, John lost track of time, and only noticed that over an hour had passed when he felt a cramp from sitting still for so long.

Sherlock watched John stretch, casually. All things considered, he had seen quite a few male bodies - granted, most of them had been dead, but not all - and he had something of an appreciation for aesthetics. While John might not be what the average person might point to as the epitome of masculine beauty, most people were idiots. It was good to have something nice around the place.

John stepped into the kitchen. "Tea?" he asked. Sherlock nodded, in his usual distracted manner, so John put the kettle on, then put tea in the pot. It was all almost surreal in its domesticity. Opening the refrigerator to get the milk, he moved a rack of vacutainers full of blood aside.

"Mind the... oh, good," Sherlock muttered belatedly. He hadn't had time to test the infected samples yet.

All in all, it was among the less disturbing things John had found in the fridge - including the milk, which he sniffed at dubiously, gagged, and threw away.

"There's sugar in the Erlenmeyer flask."

It looked sugary enough, but John knew better than to assume. He sniffed that too, then tasted a small amount. It was sweet and melted on his tongue; he relaxed.

Sherlock frowned. "At least I think it's sugar."

John spat it out violently.

The sudden noise made Sherlock perk up. "All right?"

 _Pfft_ "Yes." John poured the hot water into the pot.

"Oh, good." Content, Sherlock shifted in his chair. This was going well so far, wasn't it?

John brought out the teapot, two cups, and the flask of white crystals in on a platter. "So that's where that got to." Sherlock hadn't seen that platter since the spleen incident. That in mind, he snatched a cup up immediately.

Taking his own cup, John looked at the flask, decided he would be perfectly happy with it black, given the options, and sat down.

All right then - tea. Rather well, that too. Very civilized. Pleasant. Occasionally, Sherlock found himself casting the odd glance at John to assure himself that the man was still there. Sherlock's penis had been in the mouth sipping at the edge of that cup, and yet, here they were, still... here. There was still some field testing to do, but perhaps... perhaps.

John put his laptop away and pulled out the newspaper, ready for lighter fare. Beside him, Sherlock played with his empty cup, twirling it around in his hands. John let himself get a little lost in his own world, sipping his tea slowly, still having some left though Sherlock was done.

The lines of John's back as he leaned over his reading made for a pleasing picture despite the rather ridiculous sweater covering it up. Pleasant to look at, yes, all pleasant; very... very... Trainers. Suddenly; it was there - a pattern forming imperfectly in his mind. Sherlock shot up, mumbling about relative weights and materials, heading towards his bedroom. A nice view was well and good, but there was such a thing as too much distraction.

John started as Sherlock left. He realized that again he hadn't moved in a while, and leaned back and popped a few joints with a sigh. He considered going for a run, despite the cold; he didn't want to get out of shape, after all. He started to gather up appropriate clothing.

His trainers were the last hurdle; they had become scattered, as things tended to do around the place. His search took him past Sherlock's room. The door opened, and a new pair of trainers were waved at him by a thin, pale hand.

"Make yourself useful, if you're going out anyway. Try to emphasize the right foot on impact."

John took them; it was far from the oddest thing Sherlock had asked him to do, and they were his size. "Righto..." He strapped them on and headed out.

Sherlock had always felt cold weather runners looked rather ridiculous, and John was no exception - especially considering the fact that he had no suitable workout clothes, and had resorted to layers of whatever was nearly-appropriate. And yet, as Sherlock watched him go, there was a certain defiance to his retreating back, as if daring anyone to even consider poking fun. Sherlock lingered in the hallway for just a little while, watching the man leave, before returning to the intricate world of footwear science.

The shoes were bearable, if not terribly comfortable. John nevertheless enjoyed the exercise and the bitingly cold fresh air. He duly pounding the right shoe harder, taking some consolation in the sweat he was depositing into it. He returned to 221B feeling rather refreshed.

Sherlock appeared the moment they were taken off, mumbling "how dull," and giving John the once-over.

"Me?" John giggled, still a little out of breath.

"Yes." You had to joke about a statement like that. "But mostly the wear of the shoe."

"I'll have to try harder." John smiled as he headed towards the bathroom for a shower.

Even with that shapeless bulk of clothing, the shape of John's body was evident, certainly to Sherlock. He watched for a while, painting that picture in his mind, imagining soft, naked lines. Well, no. They would be hard, wouldn't they? There was nothing soft about the man. Sighing, Sherlock pulled himself away.

After a very brief shower, John returned to the lounge in a robe. Sherlock was sitting in his customary chair as John walked in, still fastening the robe. "Anything good from the shoes?"

"Nothing unexpected. Unfortunately." Sherlock's line of sight offered far more interesting views that John's face, but the face was a much safer option, so he stuck to it.

John shrugged. "So we wait more." He had been around Sherlock enough to know how much of that was involved in cases.

"Yes. For now." Sherlock followed John with his eyes as the other man moved towards the window, watching people walk by in the streetlight for a moment. His face looked haggard in the near-dark, brightening a little as he clearly saw something to his liking. Soon enough, he turned, returning to his chair, still blissfully unaware of Sherlock's scrutiny. As always, that power felt invigorating, but there was another flavor layered with it now; a solid sense of _belonging_ , perhaps. Something like that.

John flipped through the paper. It was almost normal again, he and Sherlock; talking easily, not talking if they felt they’d rather not, just rooming together. The place they were in was simply a metric fuckton better than where they were this morning, and he was content just to _be_.

Minutes went by unnoticed; Sherlock could, he realized, remain here for hours, just watching this man. That would not do, of course. He shook his head, blinking. There had to be a way to solve this - distractions were welcome when he needed them, but he couldn't very well lock John away when he wasn't... He considered for a moment, shaking the idea off. No, that never ended well.

Sherlock had become very fidgety; John peeked at him from over the top of his paper, raising his eyebrows.

Right. There was nothing for it. Sherlock rose, determined. "OK, going out now."

"Where?"

"Shoe shopping." He pulled his coat on, hurriedly.

John looked at Holmes's shoes, which were the same dark blandness he always wore. "Something more in a slingback?"

"Something a bit more sportive." There was that, of course, a welcome and convenient co-incidence. Shopping to be done. And testing, of a different kind.

"Want me along?" John called to Sherlock's back.

"No," Sherlock yelled, not stopping, "it's vitally important that one of us stay here!" He rushed out the door, his mind, free now, racing above and beyond.

Shrugging, John returned to his reading.

John eventually started to wonder if Sherlock had been serious about that vital importance. It was the kind of thing that might have been an offhand joke - and might have been serious. John was bored, and he wanted to go for a walk... but he played it safe and turned on the TV instead. He ended up dozing in the chair, a repeat of Red Dwarf burbling quietly on the telly. He did not notice Sherlock entering until the man was standing in front of him - no, moving towards him, still in coat, scarf and boots. "Mrph - you're back," John mumbled.

"You didn't leave."

"You told me not to." John stretched, turning the TV off.

Beautiful. Gorgeous perfection. With keen anticipation, Sherlock leaned forward. "You'd do anything I asked you to, wouldn't you?"

"Well, within reason..." That was too much qualification and John knew it. Sherlock's coat was open, fluttering around John as Sherlock hunkered down in front of him; John felt an air of chill that still hung about Sherlock from the freezing cold outside.

Already knowing the answer, Sherlock asked anyway. "Would you sleep with me?"

John almost choked. He had thought the... issue would lie dormant for a few days - at least. He was at a complete loss for words. "I... well... yes..." He felt pinned by the intensity of Sherlock's stare.

Sherlock smirked. "I'd like that." _Need it_. "In some type of bed, preferably."

"I... I think I would, too," John replied, somewhat shyly. Hell, the makeout session of the previous night had been simply _brilliant_. To have that, and retain their normal geniality - that was almost too much to hope for. Sherlock was close enough to touch, and that lean body was tempting.

Optimism. How refreshing. "What have I told you about high expectations?"

John collected himself and leaned back. "What?"

"This isn't going to change me. It's going to be awkward and difficult, and you are going to regret it." Sherlock paused, narrowing his eyes. "But yes, I think you're quite likely to enjoy it, too."

John smiled, wryly. Was this seduction, Sherlock-style? "How can I resist?"

"You won't." Sherlock turned away.

John stood up, frowning at Sherlock's back. After a moment, the man turned around again, plucking a lose thread from the arm of John's robe. "I'm never going to enjoy being _predicted_ like that," John replied, trying not to sound as petulant as he felt.

"You aren't always." Sherlock rolled the thread into a tiny ball between thumb and forefinger, not meeting John's eyes.

"Well, that's something."

Inhaling deeply, Sherlock closed his eyes, and exhaled in a sigh. "You're not 'predictable', John. Ordinary people are predictable." He was, he found, unable to meet John's eyes without his mouth falling open.

John smiled gently, putting his hand on Sherlock's cheek as the other man reached out to touch his hair. Thoughts flitted through his brain. When Sherlock had said, a moment ago, that he wouldn't change, John initial reaction had been, _well, of course not - why should he? There is no question that Sherlock is an odd bugger, but we get along well enough now, and sex shouldn't change that - I have no expectations._ But he had to admit to himself that this was not true; he had expectations of people he slept with. John was never was a ladies' man type, sleeping with folk and forgetting about it - not that he would judge those who do, it's simply not the way his mind worked. Yes, he had expectations for people he slept with - expectations that a certain 'semi-sociopathic' Sherlock Holmes would likely trample upon.

There are easier ways to get your end away...

But John simply did not want to sleep with anyone else. The thought of that lean body in his arms, and that dusky voice speaking to him, was making his business sit up and take notice. Harry used to tell him he was bisexual, and he thought she was taking the piss, but maybe she was onto something.

Sherlock still stood there, his expression a mixture of confusion and contentment. John took the bull by the horns; he closed his eyes, leaning in and pressing his lips to Sherlock's.

Would he get used to this kissing thing? Sherlock's eyes flew open at the sudden sensation; he forced himself to relax. This would not work if he couldn't relax. He moved his lips softly as John moved closer, pressing up against him. Careful movement of lips, slow, gentle embrace... yes, these were good things. Not too much. Just enough.

John pulled Sherlock close, giving in to excitement despite his earlier misgivings. Sherlock grabbed his arms tightly, which only increased the intensity. John pushed his crotch into Sherlock, opening his mouth to deepen the kiss.

Sherlock gasped. This was not what he'd expected or wanted right now, but it was _good_ , and he could not help but go along with it. In fact, when John put his hand at the back of Sherlock's head and the kiss grew ferocious, Sherlock found himself moaning in earnest, slumping a little from the onslaught.

Any misgivings were flitting away along with all other rational thought, to come back later when they were wanted again. John rubbed Sherlock's back with one hand and stroked his hair with the other, sliding his tongue in Sherlock's mouth, shivering with the deliciousness of it.

All right, this was good, but if he were going to stop it, it would have to be now. Sherlock broke away, panting. "John..."

"What?" John gasped, feeling like he had been woken from a delicious sleep by a bucket of ice-cold water.

Standing there, John half-naked and them both in the state they were, Sherlock felt a little ridiculous. Nevertheless. "W... when I said 'sleep together'..."

John waited for the end of that sentence - yes, sleeping together? Then, it hit him. Sherlock. Precise in speech. Eschewing idioms. "...oh." John scratched his head sheepishly, feeling like ten kinds of twat. Looking down, he quickly pulled his robe shut, trying to hide the fact that little John was standing at military attention.


	3. Chapter 3

John watched Sherlock walk up the stairs. "We will sleep in your bed," he had said. Yes, they would sleep sexlessly together. It would be fine. Really. He tried to convince his genitalia that this was the case, but they had been alerted earlier that sex would take place, and they were loath to let go of the idea.

He leaned against the wall for a few minutes, trying to think of something unsexy. Mrs. Hudson in a bikini. Cameron's big shiny face poster. It was no good; the sensation of Sherlock pressed against him, the delicious warmth of his mouth, would not vacate John's thoughts. He decided he could be down here all night and not become any more reconciled to the idea, and so walked up the stairs himself.

The sight that awaited him in the dim overhead light took his breath away for a moment. Sherlock lay on John's bed, naked save for a pair of pants - tight ones, displaying an obvious erection. The tracery of shadow on his body made him look impossibly slim, impossibly pale; he looked ethereal, like Ariel - a spirit too delicate for John's earthy and abhorr'd commands... John shook his head to clear it. Humor. He needed something light and silly.

"If I had a pound for every time I heard 'Can't we just cuddle?'..."

The look on Sherlock's face at the word 'cuddle' spoke the entire British Library's worth of volumes. John smiled wryly, turning off the overhead light so the room was mostly dark, a little light filtering in from outside. He would normally sleep in sweats, but it would be too hot with two bodies in bed, and so he dropped his robe on the floor and crawled in beside Sherlock.

If John thought that the sight of him virtually naked and erect did nothing to Sherlock, he was stupider than Sherlock had given him credit for. It wasn't about that; it was about how Sherlock's brain worked. Or rather, how it did _not_ work with John around to distract him. Ignoring a problem did not make it go away, so something like this could be a stopgap measure; closeness and contact without the mind-numbing effects of sex. John slipped in next to him, and Sherlock did his best to keep from pressing his own erection close. That would not help matters.

John decided he couldn't trust himself to face Sherlock. He turned to his back was to the other man. "Tell me about the shoes." He needed something to drown out the sound of his penis saying _SEXSEXSEX..._ A reply, calm and clinical, came somewhere from behind and to the right of his ear.

"I'm looking for a running shoe; expensive, but worn over a period of at least two years; the model was top of the line when it was purchased."

John shivered a little as he realized the limitations of his strategy; namely, that this voice breathing in his ear was as exciting as physical touch. "You mean the yob?"

"It is essential that I find it." This was _perfect_. Talking about the case kept his mind occupied, and this proximity kept him from wanting to pull John close; he was already here.

"How are you planning to do that?" Sherlock's breath hit the back of John's ear, and he shivered.

"I've searched every major footwear outlet in Oxford street - it would have to be Oxford street, for obvious reasons." This close, it was hard not to rub up against John ever so slightly. Well, John would understand, no doubt.

"Obvious?" John managed, through his teeth. He would have to work at it to accurately define 'street' at the moment.

"Oh yes. Took me ages to get through them all. I suppose that's what they call footwork." Sherlock laughed a little, feeling utterly relaxed and comfortable. Safe.

John shivered again as Sherlock's laugh tickled the back of his neck, and the vibrations of his voice thrilled his back. "But you haven't found it."

"No. Which means the model is no longer on the market - it's eBay next, I suppose." Sherlock sighed and shifted; his arm was wedged between them at an awkward angle. Without thinking, he ran his freed hand along the other man's side, feeling the warm skin.

John bit back a groan. This was - this was not just uncomfortable, it was _embarrassing_. Was he some teenage schoolboy? He was an adult, wasn't he? He could override his body's instinctive demands. "Are you sure he bought them and didn't steal them?"

"Actually, I'm assuming they were a gift, but it doesn't really matter either way. Not to worry; I always get my man in the end."

"Of course." Maybe he was a schoolboy, after all. John wondered idly if he would come without even touching himself, and how to explain that if he did. He remembered how quickly things had gone the first time he had made it with a girl. What was it about being with a man that brought all that excitement, that embarrassing loss of control, with it? He shouldn't be excited by a man; there was nothing particularly exciting about men. But it wasn't a man, it was Sherlock; his hands were lean and dexterous, his voice was deep and thrilling, his cock...

There was something odd about the smell of John's hair. Sherlock inhaled, his nose buried in it. "You've been using my shampoo again."

"I was out." Even defensiveness was a blessing; it was a distraction from the overwhelming sexuality behind him.

"It's entirely wrong for your type of hair; it's getting brittle." Overcome by a sudden urge to touch it again, Sherlock did so. It didn't feel all that brittle, come to that. It felt rather nice.

The long, lean hand on his hair... John bit his lip. "It's not falling out."

"No, of course not; there's absolutely no sign of that." Brushing his fingers along the roots, Sherlock checked, just to underline his point. Was this why people enjoyed petting cats and dogs? It felt rather relaxing.

If he did come without touching himself, John thought, Sherlock was just going to have to deal with it. "I never pegged you as a beautician."

"Personal grooming affects appearance, and appearance is vitally important in my line of work." His fingers still ran through John's hair, gently and steadily. The slight coarseness was actually somewhat appealing.

John tried to convince himself this was soothing and not alluring; it was almost working. "I can be on the dole whatever my hair is like. I should shave my head again." Maybe not such a good idea, in the current cold spell. The heat when he had done it before had been ridiculous, almost beyond his body's capability to comprehend. Taddy had done it - he had been blown up by an IED a week and change later, and couldn't have needed more than an Altoids box to be sent home in - but he had been alive then, his hand on John's head to steady it, the buzz of the clippers cutting close, his hair, close-cropped to start with, drifting in small clumps to the ground. The shock of the cool breeze on his bare head took his breath away, as Taddy laughed raucously at the sight of his pasty scalp. He had gotten the most intense sunburn of his life there...

This really was very nice indeed. Sherlock made a soft noise in the back of his throat, running his fingers down towards the nape of John's neck. There was stubble there; he shaved in the mornings, Sherlock knew. Just the barest hint of growth teasing at his fingertips.

John closed his eyes and breathed carefully while Sherlock ran his fingers all the way down his neck before removing his hand. The sensation was perfectly balanced between the annoyance of a tickle and the sexuality of a caress. The gesture made Sherlock move, shifting against John; he put his own hands into fists so that they would not do anything without his permission. Images of a slender, pale erection danced in John's head like sugarplums were supposed to.

There it was; Sherlock had become aroused. He'd really tried his very best not to. Well, there was nothing doing. Following his usual strategy when trying to control his errant body, he forced regular breaths, trying to coax them away from the rapid pattern into which they had fallen.

Regular deep breathing, no movement - perhaps Sherlock was falling asleep. At least he was not being stroked, John thought. He was nowhere near sleepy himself, but maybe now he could relax enough to get there. Then Sherlock stretched out, accidentally touching his groin to John's ass for the briefest of moments. John swallowed a yelp, resigning himself to a very sleepless night. And a sticky one; precome had gotten smeared all over his belly.

Sherlock mumbled a soft apology; he tried to move further back, but there was no such thing. He could tell John was getting uncomfortably hard; why wasn't he doing anything about it? Surely he didn't think Sherlock would mind?

John tried to make his tone light and dismissive. "It's a small bed."

"Yes; I'm afraid some accidental touches are going to be inevitable." And that would not do. Sherlock considered for a moment. "What if I do this?" Yes... if he draped his arm carefully around the other man, the contact, though full-bodied, would be constant, not fleeting and enticing. Much better.

John was surprised to find that Sherlock pressed against him full-length was actually less unbearably stimulating than the glancing, soft touches. "That's... fine."

Sherlock smiled. "Good." This position had moved him even closer to John's ear; he was almost nudging it with his nose. Hm... there was something about the smell here, too... "And my soap."

"I told you, I'm out," John muttered.

"Of everything?"

"If you use it in the shower, chances are I'm out of it."

"Fine, then." Lips brushed against skin as Sherlock spoke. "It's rather pleasant."

John sniffed. He couldn't smell anything on Sherlock - of course, he was facing away. "Good."

This new proximity was interesting in a gentle, non-insistent sort of way. His lips being so close, Sherlock found it hard to resist pressing them chastely against John's skin just once, so he didn't.

John breathed very slowly and deeply, very consciously. If he did or said anything, he would end up grabbing Sherlock and kissing him in a very unchaste way. The arm around him tightened its grip just a little; not much, more like a hug, if Sherlock were the type to give hugs. John tested the theory that relaxing and letting his back rest against Sherlock would be less intrusively exciting than keeping it stiff and upright. It was.

* * *

  
It made no sense, which was infuriating, which kept him awake, which was no help at all, because the entire point of this exercise was to blunt these constant distractions! Sherlock sighed, making sure not to exhale near John's ear or neck; the man's reactions to _that_ had been obvious.

No help; no help at all, no. In point of fact, it was making things _worse_ , as far as Sherlock was concerned.

John was asleep, truly asleep now, not just pretending like he had been the first 23 minutes after they'd stopped talking. His face relaxed in sleep, of course, and without the strain of constant guardedness, he almost looked younger. Sherlock didn't know what to think about that. Well, it was irrelevant.

Being awake wouldn't be that much of a problem if he had been able to work. Any time he tried set his mind to organizing facts and recent events, however, vibrant, unbidden images of John would intrude. Closing his eyes was no help; this wasn't about actual visuals - though his body seemed to disagree with that. But he could ignore his body; he's spent a lifetime honing skills that allowed him to do so very effectively - it was not the problem. His treacherous brain was the problem.

 _Et tu, brain. After all I've done for you?_ Filling his mind with _John_ ; not just images, but remembered smells and the odd tactile sensation too. Bare skin under his fingers (which was here, right now, too, making things worse, because touching would mean waking John, and waking John would lead to exactly the sort of thing he couldn't allow), his own shampoo smelling differently in John's hair; a slightly younger, harder-faced John with his head shaved... _No_. That was the worst one, somehow. _Why?_

Infuriating.

Infuriating.

* * *

In the early hours of the morning Sherlock found that he was naked. Why was he naked? Well, he was asleep, of course, but that thought drifted away as soon as it arrived. All he knew what that he was naked, in some dark, unfamiliar place.

Suddenly there was light, and a straight backed familiar figure, outlined in a doorway that wasn't there before. _John._ That was all right then; that was fine. Sherlock slid down to his knees, patiently awaiting what would happen next.

The John in the doorway was stern, younger looking, hair so closely cropped it might as well have been shaved, which sent Sherlock's blood straight to his groin. He couldn't move his hands - oh right; they were tied together, like his legs. That was all right then. He felt perfectly safe. His cock twitched, hard and aching.

John approached him, face hard, but not unkind, one hand digging into Sherlock's hair, forcing him to look up. Then there was... something blurry; he was no longer tied up, but lying face down on something soft, a warm weight pressing down on his back, bearing down on him.

Then his legs were pushed apart, and something pressed _into_ him; that wasn't how it worked, the still-logical part of his mind insisted, but this was not reality, and it felt only hard, and _full_ and _good_ as that familiar warmth pressed into him, taking him, owning him; that safe, familiar...

Waking to John's snores, Sherlock shook himself. John was shaking, mumbling something about 'Taddy' and 'over there' to himself. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. There was no way he could get out of there without fully waking John, and he wasn't sure he was quite ready for that yet.

"...never saw him," John murmured.

Sherlock pushed back against the wall to give the other man more room, studying his movements. He was clearly in some sort of distress - probably a flashback from combat, somewhere. He was mumbling; the words were hardly more than sounds.

"...left it.... off... why?"

Possible meanings danced around in Sherlock's head, trying to fit together. He mentally waved it away; it was unimportant, wasn't it? It didn't feel unimportant.

"No more." The words escaped in a snore.

Sherlock tightened his grip, just a little, as the body in his arms began to wake.

"Mmr..."

It felt... odd to watch John like this. He looked changed somehow. That made absolutely no sense; there was no qualitative difference. Sherlock watched him, his thumb caressing John's hand, seeing as how it had happened to land next to it.

John blinked, looking over blearily. Sherlock's expression was something akin to a smile. "Morning..." he muttered sleepily.

"Morning." Sherlock winced at the sound of his voice; groggy and low, not yet working.

John was rapidly waking up. "Sleep OK?" It felt odd, banal, but what else to say?

All in all, Sherlock felt a little ridiculous. He pulled his arm away from John, slowly. "Not bad."

"Good. I've been told I snore." John got up on his elbows, rubbing sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand. He felt intensely odd, trying to act normal after the raw, embarrassing sexuality of the night before. Looking over the side, he located his discarded robe, rolled out of bed and shrugged it on. Better than nothing. Better than mostly-naked in bed with Sherlock with his regular morning erection.

Sherlock watched John dress in something of a daze. He was erect, not to the point he had been last night, but with the stress and lack of sleep, that visual reaction went straight to Sherlock's brain, or rather his body; in particular, his own penis.

Now that he was safely wrapped, John looked over at Sherlock. "I was going to... er.. shower." What was the etiquette? He would be fumbling if it hadn't been Sherlock, the man who hated niceties.

Sherlock nodded, slumping down a little again. He tried not to stare; that would hardly help, would it? "All right."

John nodded, walking out. He felt dirty in all kinds of ways, and very grateful to step into a shower. He opened the taps, getting the water more or less right, and stood under the cascading water, sighing. His regular morning erection would be subsiding by now, but this one was the result of two nights in a row of intense stimulation without release, and it was not going away. He wondered if he could get away with masturbating in the shower - but Sherlock had excellent hearing... Checking to make sure the bathroom door was still closed, John stuffed a sponge in his mouth, wanking as quickly and quietly as he possibly could. The orgasm hit him hard, lights glowing sullenly in his brain; he grabbed the shower head to keep from falling over, reeling dizzily.

He spat out the sponge as he recovered, and cleaned his teeth. He shut off the water, trying to compose himself as he dried himself off.

* * *

Collapsing back onto bed the bed, Sherlock screwed his eyes shut, covering his face in his hands. He slammed the back of his head into the pillow a few times - surprisingly, it didn't make him feel any better. He wondered, briefly, if John realized that if he had a wank in the shower, Sherlock could not help but hear him... oh, _dead quiet_. Well done John; that's not an entirely dead giveaway, is it. Sherlock rolled his eyes in frustration. Now he was hard and tired and annoyed. He kicked at the duvet; at least when he pushed it around, it fell pleasingly to the floor in a puddle.

John emerged, in a robe again but cleaner, feeling almost in command of himself again. That feeling went flying away at the speed of sound at the sight of a near-naked, erect Sherlock in his bed, uncovered by the duvet, staring vacantly at the ceiling. John looked longingly at the closet - on the far side of the room.

Oh. There was John again. Sherlock could turn away again and move, he supposed, or even cover himself, but that would require effort.

Deciding he had to do _something_ other than stand there and stare, John crossed the room to pick out clothing for the day. "Cold out there." That was normal. That was conversational.

"Yes, so I've gathered," Sherlock replied weakly. He could not look directly at John. That too, required effort. And something else he couldn't quite gather.

The rebuff of an offer of perfectly normal conversation made John punchy. "Well, I just thought a conversation that didn't start with 'Nice hard-on' would go over better." Being a man of varied sartorial taste, he pulled out jeans, a button-down, and a jumper.

Enough was enough. "Yeah, OK." Sherlock sat up, scooting out of bed. "Point taken." This had possibly been the worst idea he had ever had, and he regularly kept human body parts in his refrigerator. Enough, enough, enough, enough, _enough_...

Dropping his robe, John looked over at Sherlock as he pulled his trousers on - he had to smile. John wasn't much for men, but Sherlock was simply a beautiful piece of engineering, his lean musculature working in perfect harmony as he clambered out of bed.

"My mistake; this was a terrible idea," Sherlock muttered, stalking out of the room. He needed a shower. There was a button missing at the top of his jeans, which, he belatedly remembered, was why he had not worn them for three months, and why they were now a little too roomy to fit without a belt, which he did not have. He needed to find the button. He needed to _think_.

A terrible idea? But it had been Sherlock's... and the excitement had been mutual... and John hadn't done anything untoward... what was the goal of all of this, again? Frowning, John buttoned his jeans and pulled on his shirt, leaving the jumper on the ground. He followed Sherlock down into the lounge, buttoning the shirt. "What are you talking about?"

"We're not a couple of angst-ridden university students; we can't keep this up." Between the cushions of the sofa. Everything turned up there, eventually. "It isn't fair to" _you_ "any of us."

Frowning slightly, John leaned against wall as he finished buttoning up his shirt, trying to decide what it all meant. "Funny - it should really be the perfect solution.'

"How so?" Not between the cushions. Underneath them?

John left his shirt untucked as he jammed his hands into his pockets, needing to put them somewhere. Really, sex between them made a lot of rational sense, and didn't Sherlock like that kind of thing? "We're two blokes - we don't care about romance and candles and remembering each other's birthdays, we don't care if we leave shite lying all over the apartment, we don't care if we have odd hours, we generally get on pretty well..."

 _Behind_ the cushions. Obvious, really. Palming the button, Sherlock turned towards his room, but John was in the way. Not literally; the space in front of Sherlock was open and John-less, but something - John's _stare_ , he realized with astonishment - was keeping him there. "That's not how relationships work."

That... Coming from Sherlock, that was incredibly rich. "Oh! Yes, you know relationships, don't you - tell me how they work."

There was nothing _actually_ there in front of him, Sherlock told himself, moving past it. "They don't!"

"Never?" John looked at the empty space where Sherlock was.

Safely inside his room, Sherlock opened the door to reply, feeling childish, which had never bothered him before. "Not really, no." There. Argument settled.

"Self-fulfilling prophecy, that." It took a few beats for Sherlock to emerge again, halfway into a shirt this time, and wearing socks.

"It doesn't matter! The point is, it's not going to work out."

John shrugged. "It's all that matters. If you're sure it won't, it won't." There was nothing else to it - nowhere was anything guaranteed, but both people had to want it or there was nothing. Simple as that.

The man could simply not understand when he'd lost an argument, could he? Tucking his shirt into a better fitting pair of trousers, Sherlock burst out again. "Please don't tell me you're into that 'positive thinking' bullshit..."

"Exactly the opposite."

"Then will you _please_ -" Sherlock's phone buzzed. Not the regular, soft beeps of a text; the continuing buzz of an e-mail message. Sherlock picked it up, eagerly. Oh _yes_... "Hah!"

John sighed. Sherlock had gone from anger to a sudden beaming grin in no time at all - and that was the man, really. It had to do with the case; everything was about the cases, all his joy, all his meaning. "What is it?"

"I've got the shoes! Made a bid on them this morning."

"Good."

A sweet, welcome surge of energy filled Sherlock to the brim. He _tingled_. "They'll be delivered later today; make sure you don't open it."

Sherlock whirled into his room and closed the door, his earlier conversation apparently forgotten. John stared at the closed door, feeling like he had just been hit by a sociopathic hurricane.

What did it all mean?

A day ago, this would have been business as usual. He and Sherlock, sharing a flat reasonably amicably; not quite mates, perhaps, but genial compatriots, having fun solving crimes now and then, buggering off to do their own things other times. But now - something had been dangled in front of his face, then snatched away just as he reached for it.

Something he didn't realize he would want so much.

Many hours later, as John sat in a chair reading, Sherlock rushed out, mumbling something about meetings and Tube exits.

* * *

The papers in the newsagents he hurried by proclaimed the coldest December in 90 years, but Sherlock gave no more notice to the headlines than he did the weather they were describing. The cold registered, of course, but it was an irrelevant variable, set aside, lost in the elation of the chase.

The chase!

They'd been clever; not clever enough, of course, but interestingly, amusingly clever. It was not really a challenge, but the barest, tastiest hint of one; an amuse bouche for his mind. Delightful.

'I have a message for Sherlock Holmes' - the shoes, of course. They made no sense; they were wrong, so they _were_ the message. Then the eBay auction with an offered same-day delivery - the odds of it existing, him finding it and also winning it were astronomical. He'd checked the sender's address, and it was a post box in near London Bridge. Clever, yes, but not clever enough.

The distance would have been shorter to drive, in theory, but London cab drivers were famous, highly skilled and hence impossible to direct through short cuts. The Tube was reliable, convenient, and besides, he was in no hurry. Changing at Embankment, he reached London Bridge station in less than an hour, feeling rather smug as he approached the post office...

...which was closed. An envelope was taped to the door however, addressed to 'Sherlock Holmes' in neat type. Sherlock grabbed it, tearing it open. A single, folded sheet of paper was inside. Reading it took less than a moment, and it fell to the ground, soaking through with dirty snow.

"John," Sherlock choked.

He did not freeze, nor did he hesitate; in a flash, he hailed a taxi, waving a credit card at the driver.

"I'll pay you double if you do exactly as I say. No thinking, no opinions, just follow my instructions."

"Begging your pardon..."

"NO THINKING; JUST GO!"


	4. Chapter 4

The day had gone by fairly uneventfully, which in itself was... strange. John had gone for a walk outside, marveling at the _normalcy_ of the people he saw, the inflexibility of the physical laws of the universe, the fact that the buildings that had been standing yesterday were all still in the same places. After the past day, John would not have been surprised to have opened the door of 221B upon an alien landscape.

He returned with a book of trashy fiction that he picked up at the news-stand around the corner. After an hour or so, he looked up from a particularly egregious description of a fictional autopsy as Sherlock blew in like a winter storm. "Back already?"

Sherlock's heart was racing. He did not feel the steps under his feet, and the fact that the door was open barely registered; he could not know; there was no way to know - no way to know for sure... there was _John_ , sitting in his chair, like... like _nothing_. Everything.

John dropped his book when he saw Sherlock, his face like a goosed Yeti. "What's wrong?" The man was exhaling with something akin to a whimper; he rushed forth and embraced John tightly, kneeling before the chair as he did so. "What's going on?" John asked, entirely bemused.

Words hardly mattered. Sherlock buried himself in John's neck, smelling his own soap and shampoo and feeling that insistent, beating pulse... "Impossible. No; it can't be..." But it was, it very evidently was. Such facts could not (should not) be argued with. "You opened it. Why did you open it?"

"What are you talking about?" John asked, exasperated, pulling back. Sherlock generally had no preamble, but this... this _was_ opening the door onto an alien landscape.

"The package. You opened the package - you must..." It was a binary; there was no middle ground. No middle ground, unless... "Oh. The package never arrived."

"What pack... Oh, no, it didn't..." What did a bloody package matter? What was Sherlock on about?

John didn't understand. How could he; you couldn't deduce anything without the facts before you. Facts. Sherlock fumbled in his pockets, pulling out that still-wet paper, brown and stained from the dirty snow, holding it out.

The paper read _IF HE OBEYED, HE'S ALREADY DEAD_ and a chemical formula John was not familiar with. He frowned, slowly realizing the context... a context that made Sherlock's actions much more understandable. "You mean, someone booby-trapped your eBay package?"

"That's what they wanted me to think. I should have realized." Should have. He should have. Why hadn't he? "There was no package. It was a test."

"Can you get a PayPal refund for that?" It was all so unreal; he couldn't help being snarky.

"I thought you were dying!" Sherlock barked, the words themselves bringing back that feeling of utter helplessness; fear, terror, nothingness.

"Sorry, it was just all a little out of nowhere..."

His hands were on John, as though of their own accord. That was not possible; his brain had been involved somehow. Could he trust it with nothing, now? That was no place for them. Sherlock pulled one back, running fingers through his own, wet hair, as realization hit. "I'm an idiot. I've told them exactly what they wanted to know."

"What? That you're the master of the last-minute bid?" He grabbed Sherlock's hand, a little frightened by the wild look in Sherlock's eyes. "What's going on?"

Sherlock had to laugh. It had been that sort of a day. "That I would do anything to save you." He squeezed John's hand, meeting his eyes.

John blinked. His mouth opened, but no words came out. Things were falling into place. Sherlock had thought him dead. The thought had lead to _that_ look, _those_ actions, near-panic from the man who beat corpses with a crop to determine bruising patterns. The alien landscape was here, it was their flat.

"I think I left my card in the taxi."

"Shit, you'll have to call that in." John grasped for the easily solved everyday emergency. _That_ one, he could get his mind around.

"Well, yes; I suppose I should." That was easily dealt with. Nothing on the level of this. How close they were, he and John. Were they holding hands? How did that happen?

Sherlock looked _sheepish_. That, too, was utterly unlike the man. John squeezed his hand, then eased the pressure with a wry look, so that Sherlock could pull his hand away easily if he wanted. He did not, however, taking the opportunity instead to link their fingers together, running his thumb over John's hand. "Probably do it online, too," John muttered, looking at their interlaced fingers.

"There's an app for it," Sherlock mumbled.

John nodded, looking between Sherlock's hand and face with the infinite sadness of a golden retriever. Somehow, Sherlock's other hand had come to rest on John's thigh; it was not doing anything, it was just sort of there. John sighed. "Sherlock..."

"Hm?" Words again. Not terribly important.

John looked at the hand on his thigh. Maybe Sherlock just wasn't aware that his hand was there. "Messages... a little mixed..." His ears were turning red.

Right; the hand. Sherlock looked at them, hand and thigh. Inescapable facts, both of them. He looked up again. And there was John, still. How could such an obvious thing be miraculous? "I just... needed to know you were alive."

"I am... I hope to stay so, too."

"I don't know what I'd do without you." An inescapable fact, that too.

John shifted, trying to gather himself up. "I'm sure you'd get by..."

"I don't want to get by; I want _you_. Even if it won't work." And it would not, most likely, but that did not matter. Something in his - was there no better word than 'heart'? - made it not matter. Stupid, ridiculous and true.

John bit his lip. That wasn't quite to the level he had been talking about earlier, but... it was the first definitive statement he had gotten from Holmes about what he _wanted_. "You mean that?" Of course, wanting John Watson could mean any number of things. Wanting him to fetch your phone. Wanting him to get the groceries when you couldn't be arsed. Wanting him to get you off. Wanting... well.

Sherlock's reply was the smallest of nods, like there was no room for words, here.

John stood up, not letting go of Sherlock's hand. Standing, yes, that was the first step towards going somewhere, but where should he go that he could be sure it was not yet another mistake? Well, there were no certainties in life. He looked carefully at Sherlock - perhaps it was just a trick of the light, but there was momentarily something almost worshipful about the way Sherlock looked at him. There was no resisting that look, and John pulled Sherlock close.

It was so very easy to melt into John; to let himself go. There were other ways in which Sherlock gave up control, but none that included other people. Feeling boneless, weightless, he kissed John's neck.

Sherlock's lips and hot breath on his neck were making it difficult to think. But thinking was critical, at this junction, and so John held him firmly, stroking his back. Sherlock swayed with him, eventually pulling away and looking at John with a contented half-smile. Nothing in that smile to hold on to, to reassure him, to answer any of the questions running through his mind. John stepped back, scratching his neck as he looked down. "Well."

A cornucopia of possibilities lay in that one word, keeping Sherlock's smile firmly in place. There had to be some sort of etiquette for this he thought, idly. Well, an offer would be welcome, wouldn't it? "I have an excellent memory, you know."

John looked up. "For?"

"For many things, but actions in particular. If I've seen something done once, I can repeat it. Perhaps not perfectly," Sherlock's smile twisted, a little, "but I'm also something of a fast learner."

So _mechanistic_ \- well, that was Sherlock, wasn't it? John folded his arms over his chest, holding in his instincts; they were telling him _yes, sex good_ , but humans had evolved beyond caveman status for a reason. "Oh..."

"Consider it an offer," Sherlock prompted, uncertainty setting in. He was going about this the wrong way, wasn't he? Well, how could he possibly know? All he knew about social interaction regarding sex was that everyone lied about it. That wasn't terribly useful at all. Was he supposed to be more direct? Vulgar? Should he simply strike or grope and go with his instincts? That had been his first plan of attack, and look how well that had ended...

"I..." John swallowed, forcing himself to continue. "I'd love that, but if this is just because you thought I was dead, it'd be another regrettable evening come tomorrow." Painfully awkward, yes, but at least it was out.

Of course that was why, but how did it follow that any of them would regret it? Should he deny that he cared if John lived or died? Wanting John to live, _needing_ John to live and needing and wanting him in any and all ways; it was all one. Did he really have to spell that out? "This isn't something I could regret."

John had heard similar sentiments before, and so his smile was wry. "I wouldn't dream of contradicting the great Sherlock Holmes."

"The flawed Sherlock Holmes; deeply flawed. I've made too many mistakes these past few days." He had followed his instincts when he set all of this in motion; he should have trusted them all the way through. They were rarely wrong.

"Everyone is entitled to a few."

Sherlock nodded, though the statement was both obvious and pointless. You shouldn't make mistakes just because you could. No matter. John was still standing there, making no move. Perhaps the offer had not been blatant enough. "I'm going to have a lie down. My door is never locked to you." A tempting idea, that, and fitting. After all, he was John's to claim.

* * *

John rested his hands on the back of his chair, watching Sherlock walk to his room, trying to make sense of the meaning in the man's enigmatic smile. He shivered slightly, trepidation mixing with acute longing. Yes, of _course_ he wanted sex with Sherlock. He quivered slightly with the thought of those lips on his again, that lean cock in his mouth, that dusky voice moaning in passion. Yet it had come so close, and ended so badly, twice in a row. Could he risk another letdown?

On the other hand, could he really keep himself from doing so?

He eventually let go of the chair and walked slowly, tentatively, towards Sherlock's room. He passed Sherlock's coat, boots and scarf, discarded randomly; the coat seemed to have ended up over a chair by sheer luck. It was like the crime scene version of a long-form striptease.

Sherlock's door was slightly ajar in invitation. John peeked in.

Sherlock was draped - there was no other word for it - across the bed, shirt half unbuttoned, displaying his pale, thin chest. One arm lay across his forehead, the other slumped off the edge of the bed. As John entered, he turned his head and gave a tired smile.

John slid into the room quietly, leaning against the nearest available wall, and admired the view for a moment. Pale as marble, beautiful as Greek statuary - as if Michelangelo had decided David needed a rest after all of that rock-slinging and should take a lie-down.

* * *

He had come. Now there was a thing, wasn't it?

Sherlock stretched out, watching John watching him. The man's expression was unreadable, but there was interest there, evident in his body language. Almost luxurious, this; knowing he was wanted. Playing to an appreciative audience. Exhilarating. Sherlock could have watched for hours, with that gaze on him. Such blatant scrutiny. It made him feel naked, almost raw.

And then John began to unbutton his shirt.

He was still staring at Sherlock, keen eyes never wavering, but his fingers made quick work regardless, and soon the thing slipped off, near-soundlessly. And then John _shivered_. Sherlock blinked, his eyes widening. He found he was more than staring himself.

The air in the room was plenty warm; the temperature wasn't what made John shiver. It was the _scrutiny_ , as if he were auditioning, every one of his too-many scars further marring his hardly-model-quality torso. It was hard to judge what Sherlock was _thinking_. The man had hoisted himself up on one elbow to get a better view, and was still... staring. John watched himself being watched for a moment, looking for a reaction, positive or negative. Sherlock did appear flushed, maybe breathing faster; his eyes flickered between John's chest, arms and face. John steeled himself, and started to unfasten his trousers.

The sight was - an odd phrase; he did not literally want to eat John - mouth-watering. John's lean, strong body, so perfectly befitting his mind. There was not a lot of muscle, but what was there was naturally formed; these were the arms of someone who used them regularly, for practical, though not always terribly sensible things. Sherlock's mouth opened as he fiddled absent-mindedly with the top of his trousers; they no longer fitted comfortably in the crotch.

John slithered out of his trousers, letting them lie on the floor as well. Now fully naked, he shivered a little again. His nervousness kept him from being fully erect, but it didn't take someone of Sherlock's observational capacity to tell he was on his way there.

Sherlock shivered in sympathy, idly wondering why John would be cold in this well-heated room. Other things pressed more heavily on his mind, though. Impatient, he pulled his shirt straight up over his head without undoing the buttons, throwing it on the bed. John stared, taking it all in. _Greed_ , Sherlock thought, meeting his eyes.

This was more than enough validation. The sight of Sherlock quite evidently and unapologetically panting, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he sat on his knees on the bed, was almost pornographic. John's mouth fell open slightly.

Sherlock had never thought he'd feel such an urgent need to be _naked, now_ , but there it was, tearing at him. He leaned back a little to undo his belt; fumbling a bit with the buckle. He wasn't looking at it.

John stepped forward and kissed Sherlock - the other man was not making good headway on the buckle, and John did not want to wait for the striptease to play out. He was pulled closer immediately, Sherlock deepening the kiss with mounting urgency. There it was - Sherlock's unequivocal interest, and it undid John completely. He threw his arms around Sherlock, kissing with intensity. It was as if he had finally been given permission to touch, and he did so with abandon, rubbing Sherlock's back, sides, hair, everything. He kissed ferociously, any misgivings long in the past, in another lifetime.

All this, and his belt still on - Sherlock made another attempt to tackle the buckle. He wasn't thinking about it; wasn't even thinking about the mess he was making of the kiss, sloppily sucking at John's lips and chin, teeth clashing now and then. Though this _was_ thinking about it, wasn't it? No matter. None at all.

There was nothing practiced or elegant about what was going on, and John did not care in the least. He ripped at Sherlock's belt, his kiss just as messy and disorganized as Sherlock's. As their hands bumped into one another, Sherlock took one of John's and pressed it against his own crotch, rubbing his erection against it while starting to work at the trouser buttons. John accepted this new erection-oriented task with delight, rubbing and squeezing it firmly, but gently.

Sherlock whimpered; it was like feeding after a week under cover - desperate, urgent, all-important. Working his fly open, he tried to push his trousers down, but John's hand had already reached inside to grab him. Sherlock sighed, pushing into the touch and grabbing John's hips.

John pushed their groins together, grinding, his own erection swelling in delight at the contact. Sherlock's hands were on his ass, grabbing tightly, flesh on flesh. He groaned into Sherlock's mouth, falling down on the bed and pulling Sherlock with him.

Sherlock moved them so John ended up atop. His trousers were in the way; he kicked him down his legs while John pressed against him from the waist down, kissing with still-intense fervor. That was good; it was all well beyond _good_ , yet not enough. Sherlock fumbled between them for John's cock, his hand shaking a little as he grabbed it.

John broke the kiss to give a strangled "God...", throwing his head back. Sherlock kissed his neck as he did so, moving his hand experimentally. _Yes_. John gasped, breathing hard and bucking his hips, trying to move his cock in that strong, elegant hand. Sherlock was moaning weakly, but his strokes were too slow and careful - John was stimulated, and needed _more, faster_. He tried to buck faster into Sherlock's hand, his cock weeping precome.

All Sherlock could do was try to keep up. He wanted, needed to see them both, and leaned back a little to peer between their bodies. For a second or two he watched in fascination, until their new position made John lose his balance, both of them falling back on the bed. Sherlock slumped down alongside him, pressing against his side. He wanted the closeness; wanted _more_ this - he fumbled for John's cock, capturing his erection it was soon as he was able.

John looked over at Sherlock, hardly even seeing the man, so much of his awareness channeled into Sherlock's hand so firm on his cock. Sherlock's face was a mask of intent concentration, he bit his lip as he turned to meet John's eyes. His hand squeezed John's cock harder, and John's head fell back; he stared vacuously at the ceiling as he bucked into Sherlock's hand.

This close, everything was heat and movement and slick skin in his grip; Sherlock pressed close, trying to follow John's movements. Then, suddenly, he was grabbed and kissed, fumblingly, through John's gasps and open-mouthed pants. Twisting around, he lost his grip, concentrating on the wetness of John's mouth, the taste of his tongue.

The sensation, so strong, was unbearable to lose. John grabbed both cocks and pushed them together, squeezing both, shuddering at how _good_ and _right_ that felt, smooth skin next to smooth skin. Sherlock responded by whining through gritted teeth and bucking. John kissed him deeply, stroking them both.

This new friction; the two of them together... Sherlock whimpered, not getting enough air, not getting _enough_ , and then, abruptly, he was gasping through an orgasm that had taken him almost by surprise. He lay there, limp, as John stroked him out, feeling like his brain had drained out with the come.

John let go of Sherlock's cock when the spasms of orgasm had passed. He was so close, so heavily stimulated... he used Sherlock's come as lube to stroke his own cock, hard and fast. Sherlock gasped, his head leaning against John's shoulder, one hand ghosting along John's as it stroked. John hardly noticed; his head fell back again as he stroked himself, yes, faster, with choking breaths.

Slowly, Sherlock gained control of his breathing, feeling more like himself, which oddly made it all seem more surreal. His fingers skirted along John's, noting their movement, memorizing them. Here, a sudden quickening, there, some added pressure, a flick of the wrist, and John was gone, come splattering on his stomach and chest. Sherlock watched in fascination.

"Fuck!" John gasped hoarsely. It was another person saying that, somewhere far below him, because here there was only joy and pleasure in fierce waves, taking him, his body almost numb...

The fluid was wet and sticky, clinging to Sherlock's fingers as he trailed them through it. When he lifted his hand to look, it didn't look like much, but it was John's. He wondered, idly, what it tasted like.

John slowly came back to himself, his legs twitching, his body becoming aware of itself - flushed, sweaty, sticky with his come and with Sherlock's. Panting, he looked over at Sherlock, who was staring at his own fingers in fascination. Now he turned to John, a touch of deer-in-headlights in his face - but his body seemed calm, and he made no motions to move. John was breathing more easily now, down from the intensity, "Hey..." he said, gently. He was acutely aware of his situation, suddenly. Now was the time when it was either all right, or not at all.

"Hello." Sherlock's voice felt like raw and groggy, like he'd been deeply asleep.

"You OK?" Sleepiness was coming hard on the heels of orgasm, as it did, and it was difficult to keep his mind focused.

"Fine." He really was. Comfortably settled against John, just breathing calmly. Not really thinking about anything. Sherlock rarely felt this relaxed. Beside him, John rummaged about the bed, finding a stray sock which he unceremoniously used to mop the spillage from his chest. One of _Sherlock's_ socks. Just used and cast aside, without asking. Something tightened in Sherlock's chest, and when John pulled him close, settling them both under the covers, it grew to a larger, glowing feeling of... belonging, possibly.

Sherlock was not bolting from the room or grumbling, and that was as much as John could comprehend right now. It would do. It took him almost no time to drift off, his body rubbery with post-coital lassitude.

John snored, quietly - not an apnea snore, just a louder version of breathing. Sherlock lay there, watching him, and after some time, gently touched his hair.

Sleep would not come. How could anything, after that? How would anything keep on happening as normal? Sherlock's first instinct was to escape, to get away from this cloying intensity of _feeling_ , but John had fallen asleep on his arm, and, Sherlock realized, even if he did get out and took a shower, he would have to go back in here to get a change of clothes, which would be certain to wake John.

His skin felt warm and flushed and strangely comfortable; like well-worn clothes.

John stirred in his arms, and without thinking, Sherlock kissed his cheek.

He would find a way out of this. What sort of a detective would he be, if he couldn't?

* * *

John drifted back from a delicious, dreamless sleep. The angle of the dull grey sunlight told him it was still fairly early for a normal person, but the moment he stirred, Sherlock was out of the bed like a shot. John looked about, noting the swoosh of movement bemusedly. "Mpph?" he asked, his brain and vocal cords not yet fully functional. He heard a mumble that might have had the word 'shower' as a Sherlock-sized whirlwind moved past. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and stretching. The shower started to run, and John sighed, yawning. He felt completely unable to have any sensations aside from languid pleasure.

* * *

John had taken the rest of the soap. Sherlock grumbled under the too-cold stream of water - it helped clear his head - and considered washing with shampoo. It smelled strange and just felt _wrong_ , but he couldn't very well not wash. The bottle, however, felt suspiciously light when he grabbed it.

"Sorry, Sherlock," came John's voice from the other room, "I was going to get some more yesterday... I can pop out..."

Ignoring him, Sherlock put the shampoo down and grabbed the soap container again. Fine. He would use his incredible sleuthing powers to scrape out enough to get by. The soap and John's voice made him think about things he really didn't want to think about again. After all that mucking about with the soap, his hair fell into his eyes, leading the water to trail down his face. By the time he got out of the shower, it felt like a major accomplishment.

* * *

With no reply from Sherlock, John shrugged, got out of bed, and started putting on last night's clothing - he would have to get some supplies before he could shower anyway. He felt delightfully lazy. No tearing hurry; he had no clinic hours today. The day was his own, to be taken as slowly as he wanted.

Well, as slowly as _they_ wanted. Yes, sex changes things, and John felt odd contemplating simply doing his own thing and letting Sherlock do the same, as he would normally. He walked out into the main room, not sure what to do with himself. It still did not feel right to stay in Sherlock's room. What would happen this morning? How would Sherlock feel? Sherlock aside, how did _he_ feel?

Was that simple - just him and Holmes as usual, with sex atop? That did not seem reasonable...

No, things would change. He would just have to wait to see the nature of that change.

* * *

Stumbling out of the shower, Sherlock reached for the towel. It was not in its proper place; John again, no doubt. He wouldn't have used it, but he would have moved it, if it was in his way. There was John for you, moving, changing things entirely without Sherlock's say.

With some exceptions, perhaps.

Without shampoo, his hair felt lank and drying it seemed a chore. He didn't look in the mirror; something made him not. Thankfully, there was a fresh load of laundry in the dryer, which he'd never learned how to use properly. John again.

Always John.

The clothes were warm and somewhat comfortable, and by the time he exited the bathroom, Sherlock was beginning to feel something like himself... until he looked up to see John standing in the lounge.

There was John, always moving things without permission.

* * *

John looked over at Sherlock - his hair was perhaps a mite messier than usual, but other than that, he looked his usual self. Unflappable, mysterious, unreadable in an immaculate shirt and dark trousers. He had obviously managed to scrounge up some soap. "Sorry about the..." He waved in the general direction of the shower. "I'll pick up some more today." He looked outside, the sight of normal people doing their normal business oddly comforting. The world had not changed because he and Sherlock had slept together. "I'll get some milk, too."

"Milk would be good." There was nothing terribly interesting going on outside, just ordinary people with their ordinary problems scurrying to and fro, heading to and from the Tube, entering and exiting sandwich shops and newsagents. Still watching, one of Sherlock's hands moved gently towards John's, fingers grazing his, not quite taking hold; perhaps asking permission.

John kept looking out of window - it gave him strength - as he took Sherlock's hand. He then gave a brief look over, a 'the world has not ended, right?' look. It was almost comforting to think that Sherlock might be reading his mind from the small details of his face, so he would not have to ask out loud - well, somewhere between 'comforting' and 'highly disturbing.' Sherlock's face was as unreadable as always, but his hand squeezed John's. "Right. Let me know if you need me for anything." He squeezed Sherlock's hand in return, then let it go. Need. Layered concept, that.

What on Earth was that supposed to... oh. The look on John's face, content, just a hint of mischievousness (both inexpertly hidden), made him relax. "I rarely seem to have to. Whenever I need you, you seem to already be there."

John laughed, gently. Anything he did properly on that score was pure accident. "I always manage to stumble in."


End file.
